


Legerdemain

by longwhitecoats



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Caning, Dirty Talk, Don't Try This At Home, Forced Oral Sex, M/M, Makeouts, Neuroatypicality, Rough Oral Sex, Straightjacket as bondage, dubcon, handjobs, manual sex, non-con, this probably isn't healthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants to hate Hannibal, wants to be revolted, but like a trained animal, he responds to his master’s control. His ass tightens around Hannibal’s dick, his cock strains at the tangled fabric of the prison uniform, and he takes it on his knees in the back of a prison van with the same heat and urgency that he did when Hannibal used to fuck him on satin sheets and call him <em>Beloved</em>, not very long ago at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP, so I'll add notes and warnings as I go, but in general, be aware that this isn't going to be as sweet and cuddly as my other Hannigram series. 
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> [ETA 5/2/15: No longer a WIP.]

They transport Will to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane on a muddy Thursday, with scant warning and mercifully little press. Grey skies hang over the prison van. Will shuffles, his ankles on a short chain, his balance thrown by the position of his arms in the straightjacket and the weight of the mask on his face. He half sags on the supporting arms of his guards. His stomach has a stone of misery rolling around in it.

Then the van doors open, and there is Dr. Hannibal Lecter, sitting inside.

Will doesn’t know who he had to manipulate ( _Jack,_ his ready mind whispers, _of course it was Jack_ ) to get into the van. He doesn’t like to think about the paperwork, the reasons, the concerned looks from the van driver ( _He was a patient of yours, wasn’t he, doctor?_ ). None of it matters.

Some part of him knew Hannibal would be here to see him off. Some sick part of him was _hoping_.

The chain at Will’s ankles is locked to the floor of the van and he is buckled in. One guard rides up front, and one in the body of the van. He is seated directly opposite Hannibal. He does not look at his face.

Then the van stops, and there seems to be a problem with the papers that necessitates leaving Will and Hannibal alone in the van. Will supposes he could have predicted that, too.

“We don’t have much time,” Hannibal says, leaning forward. “So I hope you’ll understand if I dispense with the niceties.” He reaches into his pocket.

Will’s heart is racing. He knows, logically he _knows_ Hannibal can’t kill him here, now, when everyone has seen him enter the van, when there’s a paper trail. The need to use Will as his scapegoat is the very thing that will keep him safe.

Even so, his body is shaking with terror.

“What—“ he stammers. His voice is thick through the plastic of the mask, his accent flattened by the limited range of motion in his jaw. “What do we have time for, _Doctor_?”

Hannibal’s mouth twitches. “A farewell tryst.” He cocks his head; his hair catches the light.

“How romantic,” Will says.

In answer, Hannibal leans closer. He presses his lips to the plastic front of the mask: a cruel parody of a kiss.

“Oh, come on, Hannibal,” Will whispers. “That’s hardly worth this much effort.” He hates himself for this, but he wants it, wants to push, can’t help the ache of betrayal that his lover, _his lover_ , should have done this to him. He needs to know how much was real. “Show me your ace.”

Hannibal smiles at that; and then, lightning fast, he springs forward and lifts Will up from the seat, spinning him, dropping him on his knees on the floor, bent forward over the seat. The landing knocks the breath out of Will’s body as his arms, wrapped around his midsection, press into his lungs. The plastic mask makes a soft _clack_ against the seat of the van.

“Very well,” Hannibal says, and Will hears the tell-tale sound of his trouser fly being let down. He struggles, partly for show and partly from instinct; he feels Hannibal’s hand press on his lower back. As if he needed pinning. He’s chained, bound, nearly gagged, the position of his head in the mask permitting him only a closed-mouth, bestial grunting noise. He feels cool air on his ass, Hannibal’s blunt fingers suddenly opening him, fucking into him. Will moans, feeling tears come to his eyes, even as his cock fattens and throbs.

A moment later, Hannibal is bent over him, hot on his back. “Dear Will,” he says in his ear as he forces himself between Will’s chained ankles, “that it should come to this.” He grips Will’s hips and sodomizes him in one smooth thrust, and Will lets out a long low noise of pain and desire. He wants to hate Hannibal, wants to be revolted, but like a trained animal, he responds to his master’s control. His ass tightens around Hannibal’s dick, his cock strains at the tangled fabric of the prison uniform, and he takes it on his knees in the back of a prison van with the same heat and urgency that he did when Hannibal used to fuck him on satin sheets and call him _Beloved_ , not very long ago at all.

***

The look on Hannibal’s face set it off, probably. When he saw that Tobias Budge hadn’t killed Will after all, in the instant before he guarded himself again, Will glimpsed something strange and hot in Hannibal’s expression. At the time, he’d chalked it up to mere relief, but the responding warmth in his own body as he sat and talked with Hannibal should have told him otherwise. Warned him that he was leaving charted waters.

 _Here be dragons_.

“Do you wanna get a beer?” Will said, seeing the cleaning teams about to move in. “I could use one. If—actually, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen you drink beer.”

“On rare occasion,” Hannibal said, wincing as he prodded the bandages the EMTs had given his leg. “Though I much prefer wine, as you have observed.” He looked up at Will, and his expression shifted; judging, perhaps? Evaluating?

Hannibal dropped his leg. “I’m afraid I am in no condition to go out in public, however much I might enjoy the company,” he said. Will felt a pang of disappointment, and in the back of his mind, a voice said, _Abandonment requires expectation_ , and then, pathetically, _What was I expecting?_

“Right, yeah, sorry,” Will said. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. I’m sure you want to go home, rest, have dinner.” Hannibal nodded. The moment flickered, a window closing.

And then Will found his mouth was still moving: “Though I’d be happy to make dinner, if you wanted to come to my place.”

Hannibal looked up sharply at that, dark beads of blood showing on his suit and in the corner of his mouth.

Will swallowed.

“You would like to cook for me?” Hannibal said. His face cleared. “I would be honored, Will.”

Something came loose in Will’s chest, and he was grinning. “Okay,” he said. “Great. Uh, I guess, I’ll meet you there? If you want to change? I should change...” He looked down at his clothes. There wasn’t really anything to change into. More of the same: fisherman’s jackets, plain slacks, checkered shirts lacking the full complement of buttons.

“No need,” Hannibal said. “Sometimes it is worth foregoing the formalities in favor of satisfaction.” He tested his hurt leg, and then, bracing himself on the back of the desk chair, he stood. “I’ll come with you now.”

“You surprise me, Dr. Lecter,” Will said.

“Good,” Hannibal replied, going to the door.


	2. Chapter 2

They drove back in silence, the way they always did together. Will found he appreciated this about Hannibal, this stillness; if he were in the car with Jack, he’d get no peace.

He remembered to be nervous again when they pulled up to the house and got out. Will fumbled his keys. Dinner had to come from somewhere in that house – dinner for _Hannibal_ , of the real silver flatware and seemingly endless wine cellar. Will knew how to cook, but he’d never in his life been a chef.

“Hey guys,” he said to the dogs. They nosed around Hannibal’s pockets, and he held his hand out for them to sniff and lick, but Will saw how he winced as they shuffled against his bad leg, slowing him as he walked toward the kitchen. “Hey. Enough of that. Come lie down. Come on.” He looked up at Hannibal as the dogs trotted obediently to their beds. “Sorry. You want to sit down?”

Hannibal made an odd, pinched expression. “May I watch you at work?”

“Uh. Sure.” Will grabbed one of the old mock-Shaker chairs from near the fire and carried it with him into the kitchen. He set it by the window; there was a little light, still, not too late in the autumn afternoon. Dizziness overtook him for a moment. His inner ear still hadn’t recovered from the nearby gunshot that day, maybe.

“Will?”

He was gripping the back of the chair, hard. “I’m fine. Dizzy.”

“Your pallor concerns me.” Sudden heat at his wrist: Hannibal’s fingers encircling, pressing. He wanted to object to the touch, but some other feeling wakened in him instead—too deep, strange, and brief to name. Then Hannibal’s hand was gone.

“Good. Your pulse is normal. Perhaps you are simply overexcited. If you like, I can prepare some of the meal while you rest.”

Will wanted to say no, knew the polite thing was to say no. Still, he felt tired, abruptly so. The adrenaline was wearing off at last.

He sat.

“That would be—very kind,” he managed. “But I’m afraid you’ll find my kitchen isn’t—“

He couldn’t finish. Hannibal was ignoring his protests, already opening drawers and cabinets, nosing inside with eagerness. Will felt a veil of unpleasantness settle on him; was it his company Hannibal had come for, or his kitchen? He shook the thought away. Ridiculous. It was a cabin kitchen, barely functional, of no interest to anyone, and certainly not to a chef of Hannibal’s caliber. Will should be grateful for his kindness and company.

“Very well,” Hannibal said, seeming satisfied. He began to wash his hands. “What are we eating?”

“There’s, uh, if you like fish,” Will began, pointing to the freezer, “there’s actually—here, I’ll get it.” His memory was bubbling up, reminding him that in the morning, he’d caught and cleaned a nice-sized channel catfish, put it in the fridge to have for dinner. He went to the fridge—the _icebox_ , he called it out of habit, an old, oversized beast that had seen generations of tenants come and go—and he pulled out the catfish. Peeling the paper away, he laid it out on the wooden counter, all smoky skin and pale flesh, though it had bled red as anything when he’d gutted it just after dawn. It was a real trophy, something for a river fisherman to be proud of.

Hannibal touched it, his fingers brushing against Will’s as they probed his catch. “Beautiful,” he murmured.

“Caught it this morning,” was all Will could say, but he felt warmed by the praise. He was glad to have food that met Hannibal’s approval.

“And?” Hannibal said, eyebrows raised, and the bloom of happiness faded. Will hadn’t thought what he might make with the fish. He certainly didn’t have anything fancy in the icebox – no arugula sprigs, no oysters, no truffles. He had a grill out back, and a kind of victory garden full of weeds and volunteer tomatoes.

He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess—whatever you see in there...” He gestured to the icebox. “I’m so sorry, I’m terrible at this.”

“Will.” Hannibal turned to face him. He lifted his own hand to Will’s, pulled it down from its anxious motion. That was twice he’d touched him; Will tried not to betray his surprise, or that fleeting, strange feeling that surfaced again and then vanished. “This is your house. Please. Make what you would make for yourself.”

Will breathed. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I am. Nothing pleases me more than honest cooking.”

The tension in Will’s shoulders dissipated. “Then I’m going to get some tomatoes from the yard, and I’ll heat up the grill. If you can dress the fish and bring it out in about five minutes, I’ll get it cooking, and then—do you like hush puppies?”

“An American invention,” Hannibal said. “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure.”

“Well,” Will said, mouth quirking, “first time for everything.”

After lighting the grill up, Will went into the garden, an overgrown patch barely worthy of the name. It tended mostly to itself, and Will pulled up a few weeds now and then. Growing season was almost over, but a few plump heirloom tomatoes lingered on the vine, miraculously untouched by wildlife. He plucked them, felt the tautness of their skins, brushed the dirt aside. He smelled them. They were good.

Hannibal came out with the fish on a plate Will hadn’t even known he owned. It gleamed. “Just butter, salt, and a few spices,” Hannibal said, answering Will’s unspoken question. “I didn’t want to intrude.”

“No, no, that’s good. Thanks.” Hannibal lifted the fish onto the grill, and it dripped in the fire. Will loved the smell of fish as it cooked, the too-much heat on his face. “Okay. I’m going to do the hush puppies. And these.” He held up the tomatoes. Hannibal made a quizzical face.

Will grinned. “You’ll see. I’ll be back in five minutes. Can you turn the fish over when it crackles?”

“I can,” Hannibal said, and Will went to make the batter for the hush puppies.

Food wasn’t a big part of the mess that rattled around in Will’s brain; he forgot to eat sometimes, and ate poorly if he hadn’t caught anything special. Most food didn’t make him think of anything. He hadn’t even known that food could be such a production until he’d eaten Hannibal’s cooking, a species of dining so foreign to Will that he couldn’t imagine how it was produced. But there were a few things that held emotions in them, memories, and hush puppies were one of the things he’d made with his dad when he was young and living on the bayou. They didn’t have much money, but you could generally scrounge up eggs, flour, oil, and cornmeal if you looked through the pantry, or if you borrowed from the neighbors.

The hush puppies sizzled in the pan. He popped them out onto a plate and put in the next batch. He washed the tomatoes and sliced them, and when the last hush puppies were done, he rolled the tomato slices in the leftover batter and fried those up too.

He came out with two plates already served up with the fried tomatoes and hush puppies, two beers cradled under his arm. Hannibal took the fish off the grill and plated it with a soft curve of the wrist, and they sat down on the back porch in two old rocking chairs.

“Beer?” Will said. “I know you don’t usually, but. You said to make what I would have. So.”

“In that case, I shall,” Hannibal said, and that was when Will knew he really had to be just indulging him. It should have made him depressed again, and yet somehow it was nice, the idea that a man who served foie gras at his own table was happy to eat poor southern food at Will’s.

“Here you go, then,” Will said. “Catfish, fried tomatoes, and hush puppies.” And then, because he felt he couldn’t keep it from Hannibal: “Like my dad used to make.”

They ate without talking, though Hannibal made noises of surprise and of pleasure as he tried each dish. Will couldn’t tell whether they were for show; he didn’t think so.

When they were done, Will cleared their dishes and let the dogs out onto the porch. Stars were beginning to come out, and the wind rose; when the dogs had enjoyed the outside enough, Will called them in, and they all went inside.

“Well,” Will said, his head made lighter by beer and a cautious feeling of success, “thank you for coming.”

“Thank you,” Hannibal said. “That was an excellent meal, Will. I’m very touched.”

Will shuffled. He felt his face flush, and he put up a hand to cover it, though he didn’t know why. A childhood instinct, maybe, bubbling up through time, its passage eased by gustatory memories. “I can. Uh.” He had meant to say _I can clean up_ , or to thank Hannibal for coming, but something held him still. He met Hannibal’s eyes.

Months later, in his cell, this was the moment Will turned over and over in his mind, the move he couldn’t quite follow. Had Hannibal planned the entire evening out, and was he merely executing a premeditated ploy, as he did with the fishing lures and the—other evidence? Or did he decide, then, standing in Will’s kitchen, to make the leap?

And if it was the latter, what did that say about his feelings for Will?

In the cheap kitchen light, Hannibal’s face somehow looked softer, his mouth and eyes more round and full. He was thinking something. Will wished he knew what.

Will opened his mouth to—to ask—

And then Hannibal was leaning toward him, slowly, delicately, and putting a hand on Will’s face, and all Will could do was say, “Oh,” and then he was tilting his face up to meet Hannibal’s, and then, then they were kissing.

Will felt the weight of Hannibal’s body against his, the press of his crisp suit, the slight favoring of his left leg as his thighs brushed Will’s. He stood a hair’s breadth away, and he held Will’s face as if it were one of his wide-mouthed wine glasses, and he drank Will up.

“Hannibal,” Will breathed at last, breaking the kiss. He was gasping. Somehow his hands were pressing Hannibal’s chest—pushing away or slipping under the jacket, he didn’t know, couldn’t remember. He felt hot and his head was pounding. No—his _heart_ was pounding—

“I feared today that I might have lost you,” Hannibal whispered, his thumb tracing Will’s wet lips, his other hand pulling Will close at the waist. “Fear makes us reach for what we truly want.”

“Me?” Will said. He couldn’t open his eyes all the way, could barely process all the sensation coming in— _Hannibal is kissing me, Hannibal is holding me, Hannibal’s hand on my mouth on my body oh god_ — “For what possible purpose could you want—this—want me—like this? I’m such a disaster, I’m fading into nothingness, I’m a human _puddle_ , and you know that better than anybody, god. Why would you want any part of this?”

Hannibal lifted Will’s face with both hands, forcing Will to meet his eyes. “I want every part of you,” he said.

Will swallowed.

“My bed is in the other room,” he said weakly.

They stumbled together through the doorway, tangled now in trying to disrobe and kiss at the same time. Will registered in the back of his mind, with some selfish pleasure, that Hannibal discarded his finery with no more care than Will did his jeans and fisherman’s plaid, apparently eager for Will. Hungry.

Will caught his breath when he saw Hannibal shirtless. He’d imagined it—not with any purpose, he’d told himself, but he’d wondered... but he hadn’t been prepared for the sheer musculature of Hannibal’s body. Clothed, he looked like something out of a nineteenth-century etching; stripped, he could have been on the cover of one of the adventure tales Will had loved as a kid, something by Stevenson or Conrad, with the word _darkness_ spread over his abdomen in lurid red ink.

“Will,” he said, his voice rough, and gripped Will by the shoulders, and all thought fled Will's mind.

Hannibal was powerfully strong, and not shy of it; he rolled himself on top of Will, kissed him breathless, pressed himself between Will’s thighs. When Will cried out because he couldn’t bear the pressure, Hannibal seized his wrists, pinned them over his head, and ground savagely down with his hips.

“Please, Hannibal, I’m—oh god, I can’t last much longer like this—“

“Oh, but you can,” Hannibal whispered into his ear. “And you will.”

That sent a jolt of fear, and something hot and sharp, right through Will’s body.

“I don’t—“ but Hannibal was kissing him again then, soft and wet, a counterpoint to the hard motion of his hips between Will’s legs. Will was so hard, and though Will hadn’t managed to get Hannibal’s pants off, the fabric was fine, thin, leaving little between Will’s cock and Hannibal’s. He felt huge, his length grinding mercilessly against Will, and Will wanted to look, wanted to feel with his hands—he pushed gently at Hannibal’s grip—

Hannibal snarled, a frightening, animal noise, and held tighter, squeezing the fragile bones of Will’s wrists. Will made a small sound of pain, and something about that seemed to spur Hannibal on; his eyes flashed, and Will felt his other hand pull at the band of Will’s undershorts.

“What do you think of,” Hannibal hissed, “when you pleasure yourself?”

“Jesus, Hannibal,” Will gasped, his chest tightening with shame.

“Patients who find themselves troubled with sleep disorders often take comfort in self-stimulation,” he said, beginning to lick at Will’s throat, and god, there was something so _wrong_ in hearing that calm therapist’s voice here, like this, lying helpless and aching and even scared. His dick fattened, pressed back against Hannibal’s weight.

“I guess,” he gasped, “I think—god, are you sure—“

“Tell me,” Hannibal said, and his hand pulled Will’s undershorts free of his dick. Will felt Hannibal roll slightly to the side, and then his huge hand was wrapped around Will’s cock, and Will made a long keening noise that frightened a couple of the dogs, who woofed uncomfortably.

Will licked his lips. “Uh, god, okay, I guess—last night I—was thinking about Alana,” he said, and winced, because why the fuck would you admit to the person pumping your dick that you’d been fantasizing about someone else?

But Hannibal seemed interested. “What did you imagine about her?”

“Uh. It was—I was imagining that she hadn’t left, after we kissed—that we undressed, and—" but something was missing there; he’d made a leap, fantasizing, something he couldn’t recall or explain. “And then—“

“Then what, Will?” Hannibal was on his side, now, one hand still clutching Will’s wrists, the other sliding up and down Will’s dick, his fingers gleaming with precome.

Will shuddered. “Then I don’t know, I can’t remember,” he said. “But the thing that I—that made me come—“

“Yes,” Hannibal breathed, his hand speeding up. His hips worked, curving against Will’s flank.

“It was—“ and he remembered it all at once, suddenly, the thing that had pushed him over the edge. “It was—that you were sitting in the chair nearby— _ah_ —telling me—how to fuck her—"

“ _Good boy_ ,” Hannibal whispered, and oh _god_ , that was it, Will couldn’t help himself, he tightened and loosed like an arrow from a bow, and he was coming all over Hannibal’s hand, his stomach, the band of his slacks.

Hannibal stroked him a little, let him grow quiet. He released Will’s hands. He kissed him.

“Thank you,” Will said, feeling very small.

“My pleasure,” Hannibal said. And then: “Excuse me.” He got up, footsteps heading toward the restroom.

Will found he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

Weight dipped the bed. “Hannibal?” he said, groping with a free hand.

Arms encircled him. “I’m here, Will.”

“I ought to...” He didn’t know. Reciprocate, perhaps. Clean up the dishes. Get pajamas for Hannibal.

He felt the warmth of Hannibal’s body, now naked, press against him.

“Sleep, Will,” Hannibal said, as if it were a prescription, a command; and Will obeyed, drifting off into a blackness that promised to last.

He heard Hannibal whisper as he fell asleep, but they were not words he knew.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.
> 
> This chapter contains minor spoilers for season two.

When he woke up, the other side of the bed was cold.

Pale light made the sheets seem threadbare. Will traced the hollow in the blankets with his fingers. There was dark earth under his nails. A dullness settled on him. Hannibal was gone. Nothing else would happen.

As the feeling began to spike into despair, Will slipped his hand around the pillow, clutching it to his chest, and something cut his finger. He swore, and then realized it was paper. He pulled out a note in Hannibal’s swooping cursive:

_Nymph: I entreat thee stay._

No explanation followed. Will could only assume he was meant to take the instruction literally. He sucked his cut finger and re-read the message until the words grew senseless. When the dogs sensed his wakefulness and began to whine, he pulled on some boxers, and he got up to let the dogs outside and pour out their breakfast.

He heard the rumble of the car—his _own_ car, he realized—just as he sat back down on the mattress, feeling at loose ends. He jumped up and opened the door.

“I half-hoped I would find you still in bed,” said Hannibal, grinning. He shut the car door and came up the steps. Will couldn’t think what to say. Hannibal had apparently borrowed his car; now he was dressed in a clean suit, clearly bathed, carrying what looked suspiciously like a hamper.

“You’re dressed,” he said. He stood with his arm outstretched, still holding the screen open.

Hannibal paused at the door, his eyes searching Will’s. Then he crowded Will against the doorframe, gripping his face with his free hand, and opened Will’s mouth with a hard, long kiss. Will groaned, trapped against the wood. Hannibal’s body pressed against his, making his own body remember the events of the previous night. He was practically naked, and the thick wool of Hannibal’s suit scratched at him.

At last Hannibal let him breathe. He wobbled.

“I’m—I smell like sex,” he said, apologetically.

Hannibal smiled. “You also taste like sex,” he said, and a shiver went through Will’s body. “May I come in?”

“I—yes, god, I’m sorry.” Will stepped backward, stumbling a little over the dogs, who were beginning to snuffle around hopefully in search of food. Hannibal went straight into the kitchen and began unpacking the hamper; Will, uncertain of the etiquette for any kind of morning after, picked up a tshirt and followed, dressing himself. “I found your note.”

“And did you recognize the verse?”

He hadn’t, but the word _verse_ rather than _quotation_ jarred the requisite knowledge loose in his brain, and he laughed.

“Daphne and Apollo,” he said. Hannibal nodded approvingly. “Do you plan to transform me into a tree, Dr. Lecter?”

“You would be no less beautiful,” Hannibal said, and god, how could he say that so casually, without even a pause to acknowledge the way it stopped Will’s breath? “But no, my plans for you do not involve an arboreal metamorphosis.” He was opening jars now, pulling cooking implements out of the hamper. A clutch of eggs emerged; then half a loaf of thick bread; then a bundle of herbs tied with parcel string.

Will leaned against the counter. “You were afraid I would leave. And yet you were the one who left me.”

That gave Hannibal pause; he put down a measuring cup and a whisk and looked at Will.

“Words of that kind are usually said at the end of a relationship,” he said, “not the beginning of one.”

Will swallowed. “Is this a relationship?”

Hannibal watched him. A grackle began to call outside. Will leaned forward, uncertain; then he stepped into Hannibal’s arms, gently bracing himself on Hannibal’s waist. They kissed for a long time, Will pressed softly against the edge of the laminate counter.

Then Hannibal kissed his way up Will’s neck, sweet and warm, and Will heard whispered in his ear the same words he’d been unable to discern as he fell asleep:

__

_The art of medicine is my invention, and the power of herbs;_  
 _but though the world declare my useful works_  
 _there is no herb to medicate my wound,_  
 _and all the arts that save have failed their lord._

“The god of healing, in love with a wild nymph,” Will said, breathless, and then bit his own lip at his own rashness. He stiffened; Hannibal froze. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I mean, I’m not assuming—”

“Will,” Hannibal said, not moving, his mouth next to Will’s ear. “I won’t leave you.”

He stepped back then, his hands in Will’s hair. Will felt liquid.

“Okay.” He nodded.

“And when a man comes into your kitchen the morning after you have sex,” Hannibal said, “makes you breakfast, and recites to you the words of the greatest love poet of the ancient world—” he ran his thumb over Will’s lower lip, and Will felt his mouth open, almost of its own volition, wet and wanting— “in those circumstances, I do not think you are being rude to presume that he might be in love with you.”

Will stood, open-mouthed, feeling something take root in his chest. Then he closed his mouth over Hannibal’s thumb, sucked, and with a deep moan, he dropped to his knees.

“Will,” Hannibal said; but then Will opened Hannibal’s perfectly pressed trousers and put his mouth to work, and that was all Hannibal said for some time.

***

Will stands in a cage in the Baltimore Hospital For the Criminally Insane, listening to the birds sing outside.

The metal is rusting, and the yellow paint flakes away under his grip. He braces his arms squarely, using the tightness in his forearms as a way of grounding himself, and closes his eyes.

He feels the branches begin to sprout from his neck and back. Thorns jut out from dark boughs, and leaves softly unfurl, blowing in an unseen wind.

Dr. Lecter’s appointment is not for another ten minutes; he is alone. But even so, he whispers to the empty air, to the light that lances in and splashes on the stone floor.

“Transformation is not about what you do to me,” he says. “It’s not about how you change me, or what I become.”

He hears footsteps, the jangling of keys.

“It’s about what they see.”

Will opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed from [this translation](http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.02.0028%3Abook%3D1%3Acard%3D452) of Ovid for the verses in this chapter.
> 
> So from now on, this fic is going to contain season two spoilers, probably! I'm still sorting it out in my head. Thank you for reading!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heat flared between them whenever they were in a room together; barely anything else existed, and nothing else mattered.

Will pauses with his hand on the doorknob, eyes closed, heart pounding. On the other side of the door, there are ghosts: memories laced with fire, a love in ashes. Hannibal’s office no doubt stands much as it once stood, but that was before. 

He meant to come here, he reminds himself. His hair is combed, his shirt neat, if not ironed; he has aligned himself, buttoned and folded and presented himself, like a pretty little dish ready for serving. This is part of the plan. But still: Hannibal’s office. So much happened here, back when he was still burning.

He closes his eyes, remembering.

* * * 

Heat flared between them whenever they were in a room together; barely anything else existed, and nothing else mattered. They emerged gloved and bloody from crime scenes and groped at one another with those hands, ignoring the contamination, the bleeding over of death into their lovemaking. Or perhaps they relished it; Will found it hard to know for sure whether he felt his own feelings, or Hannibal’s, or—something else. Will was on fire, and nothing would satiate the burning but pulling Hannibal with him into the inferno.

Hannibal’s gentleness turned quickly into an elegantly restrained hunger. He mouthed at Will’s neck the same way he sipped claret—smelling, testing, assessing, sometimes in the backs of crime scenes, sometimes in the darkened lecture hall, sometimes in the woods, nosing at Will’s flesh in the dark. His breath would steam in the late fall air and Will would shudder, and roll over, and wake up somewhere else entirely. He grounded himself not in hours of the day, but in his body, and Hannibal’s. In that satin-sheeted bed, he lost more than time, surfacing only to find himself already being penetrated, already opening for Hannibal, his mouth making useless noises of desperate lust and his hands limp in the restraints that held him to the bed while he was fucked. He was filled with fire, lean with hunger, and nothing was enough, nowhere and nothing stayed long enough to satiate him, except more of Hannibal inside him.

And Hannibal obliged. He fucked Will for what felt like days at a time, using him until he was raw. He fed Will, sometimes while Will was bound to the bed or on the couch or, on one memorable occasion, naked in one of Hannibal’s hand-carved high-backed chairs at the dining room table. He fed Will on oysters bedecked with pearls of ambergris, rosebuds of horse tartare, delicately seared tuna steak surrounded by slivers of raw _toro_ , slow-cooked rabbit with wild cherries, glazed duck, fiery chorizo, sweetbreads topped with onion, short ribs dripping with fat, cold shavings of tongue, hot broth with the bones rattling at the bottom of the bowl. And they drank, of course. Will’s lips seemed to him to be stained a permanent wine-dark red, his head buzzing and thick with it. Hannibal took great pride in their presentation: a rich bordeaux served in a porcelain bowl, which he made Will drink from the floor; a smoky Côtes-du-Rhône in a fragile chalice entirely made of ice, which melted in Will’s hands so quickly that he simply upended it and gulped, feeling it drip from the corners of his mouth, staining his hands, his shirt. And when Will muttered to Hannibal that he ought not spend so much money, that Will wasn’t worth the outlay—that night, Hannibal welcomed him into his kitchen and handed him not one, but _two_ glasses of a 1999 Nuits St. Georges, Les Vignerondes, a bottle of wine so expensive that Will could have bought a fishing boat with it. “Kneel,” he said, and Will did, a glass of wine in each hand, which Hannibal instructed him not to spill before opening his fly and forcing his dick into Will’s mouth. Will came untouched that night as he sucked Hannibal off, and he didn’t spill a drop.

But of all the means by which Hannibal tormented him, nothing compared to his office.

Some nights, they talked, as if they really were a patient and a doctor. Others, Hannibal put on his gloves and went to work on him with his hands, seeking and pinching and slapping until Will sobbed, begged for pleasure, came in pain. Will couldn’t help noticing that the more intimate, the more _real_ , their relationship became, the more controlled Hannibal appeared; he disrobed less frequently; he took Will with less of his initial ardor, less quickly, but more readily, and with a deeper hunger.

And there was the night—close to the end—the night when Hannibal made Will strip in front of the fire, and burned his clothes, and laid him out naked and bent over his desk. He bound Will’s hands and ankles with rope, and he wrapped the cables around the desk, leaving Will exposed and open, unable to protect himself from being touched, or tortured, or penetrated, unable even to stand.

He left Will like that for five hours.

Will didn’t know what time it was; he couldn’t tell even whether it was light or dark in the room. Everything was smudged at the edges, red and black, and the room seemed to be filled with smoke. Hannibal’s hands stroked him to hardness, then left him; then prodded at his mouth, demanded entry, investigated the ridges of his teeth as if he were a horse being examined by a veterinarian.

He would come to stand behind Will, letting him feel the rough cloth of his handmade suit against the naked backs of his thighs, his hands tracing Will’s shivering flanks. He would strike at Will with unseen implements that sang in the air and left stinging welts along his ass and thighs. Nothing was reliable, except that it got hotter and hotter, perhaps because Hannibal feared to let him grow cold and continued to build the fire in the hearth. But the fire was within him, too, and then Hannibal was nudging at him, stroking his punished flesh, parting him, and at last, near dawn, Hannibal fucked him against the desk, each thrust bruising his legs and making him groan with the anticipation of release, at last, at last, and then Hannibal’s hands were _there_ , and sparks shot in front of his eyes, and he collapsed into sleep.

***

Will is hard-pressed, even now, to say whether or not it is a good memory.

He stands in the office, remembering. Hannibal is speaking; he knows his lines, knows what he should say. He chooses to be coy, but he is sure Hannibal catches his meaning when he says, 

“I’d like to resume my therapy.”

The fire flickers in the hearth, and Will feels Hannibal’s gaze on him, hotter still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't imagine anyone is still reading this, after I left it so long, but if you are: HI. I'm so grateful for all of the kind, generous comments I've gotten on this fic, and I'm so grateful for your patience. I very much regret that I cannot promise anything like a regular update schedule, but rest assured, I haven't forgotten about these two.
> 
> That bottle of wine really exists, by the way, and it isn't even the most expensive wine you can buy at an American restaurant. It isn't even close.
> 
> ETA, 5/2/2015: I think I have to admit that this fic has come to its natural end! I suspect I'll start something new this summer when season 3 starts up. Thank you so much for reading this weird little creation!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Legerdemain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6073201) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017)




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